


Just Male Bonding and Shit

by bienenalster (pinkspider)



Series: Tracks [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bromance, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Kent’s friend is simultaneously better and worse than Jack had thought it would be. On the one hand, it means he has more excuses to touch Kent, like right now, for example. But on the other hand, he’s looking for excuses to touch Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Male Bonding and Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [rayemars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars) for beta reading and continued thanks to [Pax](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax) for being an enabling trashdragon friend. Rock on, you guys.

Being Kent’s friend is simultaneously better and worse than Jack had thought it would be.

On the one hand, it means he has more excuses to touch Kent. Like right now, for example. They’re sitting a couple inches apart on the tiny couch in the upstairs living room of Jack’s billet, playing Halo. When Kent kills Jack _again_ , he yells “BOOM!” and punches him on the shoulder. Jack punches him back and allows his knee to briefly knock against Kent’s. Kent grins his mega-watt smile that makes Jack’s stomach turn over, and Jack feels a little thrilled and a little creepy. At least he’s got a legit excuse.

But on the other hand, he’s looking for excuses to touch Kent and he’s all too aware of every time Kent touches him. Kent’s fingers brushing against his arm, a hand on his shoulder, his leg against Jack’s are too much. It makes his throat go dry and a tendril of hope creep into his heart in spite of himself. In the end, he can’t let himself believe, no matter how he feels. It’s torture how he can’t help looking at Kent, thinking about him.

If this glancing contact is all he gets, maybe it’s enough.

\---

It seems like whenever Camille turns around these days, there’s Kent Parson. She sees him and Jack together at school often, with a rotating cast of social climbing freshmen and teammates. On Monday, he was over in the evening with a couple other guys in tow, and they were yelling way too loudly about Halo until she went in and stole a controller to put an end to amateur hour. (That shut the lot of them up in a hurry.) Tuesday, way too early in the morning, he was standing on the porch waiting for Jack to come out for a jog. Thursday, he and Jack were doing homework (or so they say, anyway -- they were probably just dicking around on the Internet).

It’s Friday, and Camille’s parents left in the morning to take a weekend trip for their anniversary, and now Kent’s come over to spend the night.

“What’s that for?” she asks, gesturing at the backpack slung over his shoulder.

“When the cats are away…” he lets voice trail off while making a drinking gesture with his hand and winking roguishly at her. She rolls her eyes pointedly and shakes her head when Jack comes bounding down the stairs to punch Kent on the shoulder.

She has to admit, having Jack in the house is nice. She even enjoys Kent being there constantly. It’s like before her brothers went to college. She’d missed that. She beats them at Smash Brothers, and they make popcorn and watch an awful movie, and, after making it as clear as she can that Kent now owes her, she breaks into her parents’ liquor cabinet so the three of them can take full advantage of it.

That’s how they find out that Kent’s got his mom’s pancake recipe memorized (“give me shit about that, and I’ll never make them again”), and they’re the perfect food for a pleasantly buzzed midnight. She and Jack lean against the counter chatting while Kent pours batter into the pan. He’s spilling a lot of it on the stovetop, and Jack has plenty to say about that.

"Really, how do you ever score with aim like that?" Kent flips some pancakes with one hand and the bird with the other.

Camille can’t help but notice that Kent's got a weirdly soft look in his eyes nonetheless, like Jack hung the moon. She feels a twinge of discomfort but puts it away (she’s just being weird because she’s a little tipsy) and goes to get a new bag of syrup from the pantry.

\--

Whenever they suffer a road loss, Kent ends up sleeping like shit. Part of that is just that he’s so disappointed and pissed off at the world that he can’t quite wind down. But that’s only a small part of it. He can always blow off steam one way or another and that should be enough that he’d be out like a light.

No, the real problem is Jack.  

King and Smithy say that it’s hard to tell when he’s upset because he’s so quiet and calm. King and Smithy are idiots like that.

Jack is an easy read. If he were a book, he’d be a kid’s book with gigantic letters and bigger pictures. Everyone’s disappointed and annoyed after a loss, naturally, but Jack is mostly just angry at himself. You can practically see the lowlights reel playing in his eyes if you pay at least a little attention. Jack’s probably thinking about letting down his dad or something.

Kent never meant to analyze this shit or anything, but apparently monitoring Jack Zimmermann’s emotional crises or whatever is now his lot in life. But then, it’s hard not to notice that something’s up when your roommate never stays in his damn bed after a loss. A couple times Kent’s been woken up by a creaky bed. Once it was the sliver of light from under the bathroom door.

The last time, he woke up because he had had to piss like a racehorse. He was ridiculously nice and waited at least 45 minutes, he was sure, and he still hopes Jack appreciates that. He knows that Jack knows that Kent waited that long because Kent had told him straight up.

The next morning at the hotel’s continental breakfast, Kent had asked Jack if he’d been sick or what, and Jack had said he just couldn’t sleep. A likely story. Kent hadn’t believed him, but it seemed better to just let it go and dig into his pancakes.

But apparently, he couldn’t quite let it go. Oh, no. Because this time he’s woken up on his own, like he’s cursed not to sleep if Jack can’t. The stupid bathroom fan is loud as hell. The light’s on. Yeah, Kent’s not going to be able to just go back to sleep this time. He sighs and gets up to knock on the door.

"Hey, Zimmer," he leans back against the door.

"Sorry, be out in a second," Jack’s voice is muffled by the door and the white noise of the fan, but Kent can still _hear_ the cringe in his voice.

"Nah, you're fine,” He replies, then pauses, unsure what to say next. What the fuck is he doing here?  He continues, “Just, you’ve been in there a while, so are you sick or something? It's 3 am, man. Aren't you tired?"

"Well, yeah." Jack replies.

Kent shakes his head. "How come it's so hard for you to sleep?"

Jack falls silent for another moment before replying, "I just can't sleep well after a loss, that's all. I guess I can't stop thinking about it and how I could've done better and we could've won, you know?"

"Yeah. It's not all on you, you know. There's kind of a whole team of us, asshole, and some of us are good enough we could win a game without you." He’s trying to sound ticked off. He hopes it’s working, but he’s not even convincing himself.

"I know. That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I just hate feeling like I've disappointed -- myself."

"I get it, man."

And he does. Kent thinks for a moment.

Then he says, "This one time, I totally blew a shot in a peewee tournament. It was just like some straight up Mighty Ducks shit. Anyway. I thought it was all my fault, and I was so mad I was crying and all that. I wouldn't shut up about it until my mom told me that I should go punch a pillow for 2 minutes and then write down 3 things I did well in the game and 3 things I needed to be better at. I think she just got tired of listening to me bitch and moan. Anyway, I did that after every loss for years. Now I just make the list in my head."

Jack chuckles bitterly. "I make lists in my head too."

"Okay. But is there anything good on the list?"

"Uhm.”

This guy. "Well, try that then. And how long is your list? Like three dozen things, am I right?" Another telling silence.

Someday, Jack’s gonna make Kent sprain his eyes from rolling them so hard. "Dude. So here's what you do. Make your list but stop at three bad things, and then just get in bed and stop being such a mopey little bitch. The fan in that bathroom is really loud and some of us are hoping to get some shut eye."

"Alright," he agrees. He sounds… better. Relieved, maybe. Grounded? Whatever.

Kent smiles to himself. Truth be told, he feels better, too. He pads back to his bed and lies waiting in the dark for a few minutes until he hears Jack settle back into his own bed.

There are a few moments of silence and then Jack’s voice from the dark. “Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, bro.” Kent pretends annoyance and says, “Now, good fucking night.”

\--

Sometimes, after they’ve snuck a few beers, Kent says “Love ya, bro.” His arms and his words both embrace Jack warmly.

One time, Jack thinks he hears “I’m in love with you, man.”

But, no, he’s just drunk.


End file.
